


Shoot For The Moon, Dear

by teacuphoneybee



Series: Domestic Au [7]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Actors, Alcohol, Depression, Drunkenness, Hallucinations, Loneliness, Magic Mirrors, Soul Bond, Time Travel, jameson is an actor, starving artists, this takes place in 1905
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-31 09:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18588316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphoneybee/pseuds/teacuphoneybee
Summary: He’s become a doll, simply going through the motions, trying to put on a good show. A puppet for whatever director throws him a bone that month. And after all that, he usually can’t even afford to see the final cut of the films.With all of these thoughts swirling around his head day in and day out, Jameson isn’t too surprised when he starts to see shadows in the mirror. He laughs - maybe he’s finally losing his mind, or maybe the exhaustion and hunger are finally starting to get to him.





	1. Chapter 1

Smile. Head up. Chest out. Eyes bright. Push the expression. Exaggerate the motion.

By this point Jameson knows the drill. He’s a charming man, always has been. It has won him roles and free drinks and plenty of acquaintances.

He wouldn’t call them friends.

That would be silly.

The only thing that matters in this world is getting ahead. Everyone has a role, a job, a purpose.

And his is to entertain.

Sometimes he almost forgets his personality goes deeper than the mask he presents to others. It’s easier this way. He doesn’t have to think, or feel - he just has to perform.

That is, until people stop laughing.

Once in a blue moon, he’ll have the misfortune of meeting someone who finds his mask… unsavory, or even obnoxious. It crushes him to his core. What’s the point of carefully manicuring his image like this if some stranger can cut him down so easily?

But the alternative is almost worse - sometimes the walls he builds become so thick that no one can hear him screaming for help. They just smile and laugh along, telling him he’s so funny, so silly, just calm down and have another drink.

It’ll be fine.

He’s just overreacting.

Isn’t that just like him?

Jameson wants to scream, to scratch their eyes out - they don’t know him! They don’t know anything! And they don’t deserve to, either. Some cruel stranger isn’t worth his time. No one like that will ever know the real him.

But… is there even a “real him” anymore?

He’s become a doll, simply going through the motions, trying to put on a good show. A puppet for whatever director throws him a bone that month.

And after all that, he usually can’t even afford to see the final cut of the films.

As much as he tries to tell himself that his friends and fans make it all worth it, that too is a lie. They only feed into the feelings of isolation and unreality. He doesn’t exist to any of these people, not really.

With all of these thoughts swirling around his head day in and day out, Jameson isn’t too surprised when he starts to see shadows in the mirror. He laughs - maybe he’s finally losing his mind, or maybe the exhaustion and hunger are finally starting to get to him.

Jameson downs the glass of dirt cheap whiskey left over from the night before, scrunching up his nose at the taste. Disgusting - but it does the job. He puts on his favorite hat, and doesn’t even blink at his flickering reflection while he straightens it. For a moment his blue eyes flash a brilliant, inhuman shade of green, but he merely stands back and shrugs.

He should try to get a hot dog on his way to work. As sick as he is of those damn things, he couldn’t turn down a meal he could pay for in card tricks. Especially if he was already seeing things this early.

With a final twirl of his mustache and tug at his coat, his mask falls easily into place. The reflection is no longer his, but it’s not the work of any strange shadows.

He practically bounces out the door, locking it behind him and putting the key away with a flourish. A neighbor down the hall giggles at his antics, and he shoots her a winning smile and a wink. The whiskey stinging his throat helps numb the dread already burning in his chest.

Time for another day.

-

It’s been months since the hallucinations started, and they’ve steadily gotten worse. Jameson had mostly kept them to himself, only ever mentioning them offhandedly to an acquaintance at a bar one night. That had been a mistake - he wouldn’t dream of repeating what he’d called him.

He _is_ still a gentleman, after all - even if he’s gone completely off his rocker.

Jameson looks in the mirror, now completely unbothered by the shifting reflection. Some days it barely looks like him at all. He’s caught glimpses of sharp teeth and pointed ears, black clothes and eyes to match. If he had ever been a religious man he would have probably called a priest by now. He laughs at the thought - as if the church would want anything to do with a man like him.

It has been happening more often, though. Sometimes it almost seems like the reflection is trying to speak to him or reach out. Other times it simply… moves on its own. He’s not sure which should be more troubling.

These days he barely has the energy to care. So he doesn’t bother, and keeps getting ready for the outing he’d been dreading all day.

Despite his many protests, the group he tends to hang around most often decided to throw him a birthday party. He was never one for them, honestly - his parents had never been able to afford gifts, and he hasn’t had a single real friend since he moved away. His last few birthdays have just served as a painful reminder that another long, dreadful year had passed without him getting any closer to his goals.

“Twenty-six, huh? You’re getting old, chap,” he says softly, looking over his reflection. It’s eyes are once again shining green, and his outfit flickers every so often. Jameson grins at it because really, what else could he do? Well, he _could_ smash it, for starters, but no matter how bad it got he could never bring himself to do it.

It’s just a morbid curiosity, he tells himself again - and he definitely couldn’t afford a new one anyway.

Or maybe he’s just that bored.

Hm.

Jameson shakes his head, “No time for that nonsense, they’ll be here any minute!”

For another night of cheap booze and pub food - at least it won’t be coming out of his pocket this time.

He picks up his hat, flipping it and rolling it from one arm to the other before flicking it into the air and onto his head. He’s been practicing that one for a while. “So much for old dogs and new tricks,” he says to his reflection, winking. He could swear that for a moment it looks... impressed? Amused?

A soft giggle echoes on the edge of his mind.

Jameson catches his reflection’s eyes for a moment, and feels a strange tugging in his chest. As if pulled by an invisible string his hand begins to reach out to the glassy surface. Closer, and closer… until he could swear his fingers could simply... push through...

A loud familiar voice calls his name, violently snapping him out of his trance-like state.

He rushes to his window, poking his head out to look at the city street below. A small group has gathered - though larger than he expected. The source of the shouting stares back up at him - a handsome young man with a mop of blonde curls and freckles, not too much older than Jameson… Charles? George? Something painfully common, unfortunately. But he’s handsome nonetheless. Jameson’s heart skips a beat - he’s been harboring a small crush on the man for some time now. He’s glad to see him at the head of these festivities.

“I’ll be right down!! Don’t run off without me!!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”

Jameson feels his cheeks start to burn and pushes away from the window, clutching his chest. He hears a few laughs and jeers from the crowd below, then a loud smack followed by a roar of laughter as one of the girls calls him a tease.

“I was joking, James. Damn! Sorry!”

“A bloody shame, really,” Jameson mutters to himself, embarrassed. He crosses the room again, checking his reflection one more time. The blush flickers away for a moment, only to return worse than before. He sighs, thoughts wandering back to that strange pull he felt a few minutes ago as he fixes his hair.

He reaches out again, fingers gently brushing against the glass. The cold surface makes him shiver, but beyond that… nothing. It’s solid. Just another weird hallucination to add to the growing list.

“Maybe next time you’ll swallow me whole. God knows I wouldn’t mind.”

Jameson straightens his coat and gives himself a final once over before heading out the door, locking it with the same practiced flourish.

Smile and flirt with the neighbor girl. Shoulders back. Keep a bounce in each step. He’s going to have a whole crowd to entertain tonight - all eyes will be on him for his special day. The ever present simmering dread once again begins to flare, but there’s no time for that now.

It’s showtime.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longer Jameson looks… the clearer the hallucination becomes. He stares himself in the eyes, inching closer, almost daring his reflection to move.
> 
> It blinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to [half a world away by dearelizaa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18610333)!! Go read that first ♡

Jameson fumbles with his key, vision blurring and tilting. He grumbles to himself, cursing the swirl of locks before him.

He might’ve had a bit more to drink than he planned, but who cares - it’s his birthday after all! After spending a whole year pleasing others he’ll allow himself this one night.

After a few minutes of struggling he manages to unlock the door and stumbles inside. The door slams behind him with a loud thud, sending a rain of plaster down from the ceiling. Someone shouts at him from down the hall and he giggles - what a boring old bastard. He’ll never be like that.

He turns around to hang up his hat and is once again met with his reflection. The image is… unsettling, or it would be if he was sober.

Inky black eyes meet pale blue, and if he squints he can almost see the rest of the strange figure looking back at him. Blood drips from a gaping wound on his throat, but when Jameson reaches to touch his own it’s dry.

Of course it is - what was he expecting?

“You’ve lost it, you know that? Every single marble in that damn head of yours - Gone!” he slurs at the mirror, pointing at it accusingly. “Pushed yourself too hard and snapped. And for what?! Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Jameson goes to step away but finds that he can’t. That strange pull from earlier anchors him in place.

And the longer he looks… the clearer the hallucination becomes. He stares himself in the eyes, inching closer, almost daring his reflection to move.

It blinks.

Jameson’s mouth falls open in surprise, eyes going wide.

Out of the corner of his vision, he sees its hand start to raise. He doesn’t stop his own from doing the same. His hand shakes as he reaches out, and when his fingers finally reach the glass it feels…

 _Warm_.

A flash of light erupts from the mirrors surface, scattering into a million tiny fragments. The air seems to twitch and distort, sending Jameson stumbling back. He trips over an end table and the lamp crashes to the ground beside him. He tries to push himself up but only succeeds in slicing his hand open on a shard of glass.

Swearing loudly, he finally looks up and sees _him_ \- his hallucination.

“How the hell did you get in here?!” Jameson shouts, scrambling backwards until his back hits the wall.

The figure only steps closer, staring at him as if in a daze.

Jameson can feel the panic trying to rise in his chest, but for some reason he just can’t bring himself to feel afraid. He feels like he… knows this man, somehow. How could a stranger - one who might not even be _real_ \- feel so hauntingly familiar?

“S-Stay back. I’m warning you!”

He scrambles to his feet, struggling to maintain his balance with all the alcohol rushing through his veins. The room spins again - he definitely isn’t this drunk. Something isn’t right. Jameson opens his mouth to talk again but just feels… lost.

He can’t look away from the other man.

As if being pulled by a magnet, Jameson feels himself being drawn close to his hallucination. It’s even stronger now that he’s _here_.

Jameson needs to know who he is, how he’s here, if he’s even real.

His hand reaches out, and the strange man mirrors him. The hair on his neck raises, a chill running down his spine as something begins to shift in the air.

Their fingers touch.

Jameson gasps as warm, tingling static consumes his body, pulling him even closer to his strange doppelganger. The numbness rushes up his arm and crawls down his throat, suffocating him. It tears his neck open from the inside and spills back down onto his chest. It hurts and he can’t breathe and everything _burns_.

Until it doesn’t.

He distantly notices that they’re somewhere else. Somewhere warm - and loud.

 _What_ \- he mouths, but no sound comes to his lips.

Jameson shivers as another wave of cold numbness overcomes him. His knees buckle, and he vaguely registers that he’s falling.

The world goes dark before he even hits the ground.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Best Tears by The Happy Fits](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9aC97DbFEDA)


End file.
